


The Devils Of Saint Joan

by thnderchld



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:02:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thnderchld/pseuds/thnderchld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine Thénardier has always been many things; has always been a wicked, wicked girl. But she never thought that her parents would find her wicked enough to discharge her from their cons and send her to Saint Joan's Girl School. And never, never, did she think the skin of Devil could tremble so deliciously from a goddess of the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devils Of Saint Joan

 Chapter 1: Persephone's Daughters

 

It starts like this. A girl with hair darker than Persephone’s turned soul, born into a family of a minotaur and a harpy; with the soles of her feet scarred by jagged cobblestones, hands coated with scrap residue.

 

A fairy-tale gone wrong. There are many fairy tales that have gone wrong.

 

The devil nestles inside the breast of this creature, a seventeen-year-old with the eyes of the River Styx, and her parents know a demon when they see it. They see it in the way she cradles another girl’s head in her lap, reported at the local school by Claquesous.

 

That’s all it takes for a girl with ripped jeans and a mouthful of her father’s business to be thrust into the life of god. Ironic, seeing that someone who was hated for holding another girl like she meant something, is pushed into a girls-only school.

 

To tell the truth, Éponine doesn’t care. It’s been a long time since she can remember the gentle caress of a loving mother’s arms, or her father’s hat affectionately perched atop her head, weighing down her skull so her mother has to tell her to take it off and ‘act like a lady.’

 

The week before the word of God is thrust into her bloodstream, Éponine is curled up in the embrace of tattered sheets, watching as her mother inhales her vodka, sanity dripping from her eyes. Charmine Thénardier is not a happy drunk. Éponine, though like her in more ways than just her sharp dark eyes, does not understand her mother.

 

“It’s for your own good,” Mother Thénardier says, struggling to place her bottle on the bench. She staggers to where Éponine nestles, almost sitting on the skinny thing that is her daughter. A clawed hand makes for Éponine’s face, nails accidentally digging into the girl’s forehead. Grunting, Éponine grips her mother’s wrist and places the actual palm against her hairline; though she is confused at her mother’s actions.

 

The older woman struggles to display affection, smoothing over Éponine’s curls. “You’re such a pretty girl,” she slurs, calluses rough against her daughter’s skin. “That’s why you can’t help us anymore.” Her words catch.

 

“Maman, you can stop with the feigned love.”

 

Mother Thénardier frowns. “Don’t give me lip, Épona.”

 

“Maman, stop. It’s not lip, it’s just truth.” The rough hand is gone.

 

“At least we’ll have peace when you’re gone.”

Éponine rolls her eyes and lets sleep come to her bruised and tattered figure.

 

 

The sisters recognise it too. They cross their chests when they walk past the girl with flames in her eyes. They send word to God to preserve the girl, but yet the girl cuts the hems and hikes them above the knee, and every week at least she is made to change; but there’s nothing that’s decent in her wardrobe.

 

There’s some small mercies in the huge Christian cage; a few people to associate herself with. There is Letja Montparnasse, a girl from the gutters just like Éponine; and Musichetta Myung, a middle-class citizen sent for much the same reasons as our star demon.

 

And thus the Devil Jondrette becomes the Devil of Saint Joan.

 

 

_*****_

Montparnasse’s cigarette is acrid in Éponine’s lips and she spits it out, coughing as smoke clouds the back of her throat and bites at her eyes. Her palms reach up to rub the pain from her eye sockets. Opening her eyes she sees that Montparnasse is laughing manically.

 

When the other girl finally settles her hiccups of hilarity, she leans forward, taking Éponine Thénardier’s chin in between her fingers. She purses her lips and puffs another stream of cigarette smoke into Éponine’s face so that the girl splutters and kicks Montparnasse in the shins and backs up. “Dude, quit it,” she groans, shaking her head.

 

“You’re irresistible, Pulchra Diaboli.”

 

Éponine rolls her eyes. “You’re not a Latin goddess, ‘Parnasse, no matter how much you wish to be.”

 

Montparnasse, squinting at her with sharp green eyes, leans forward, pressing her lips to Éponine’s. The receiver splutters and steps back. “No fair, ‘Parnasse.”

 

There’s a grumble as Sister Mercy walks past, mumbling about a mishap in the yard.

 

Éponine turns to face her friend, her _best_ friend perhaps, and grins. “Let’s see what’s going on,” she chuckles, turning and walking inconspicuously after the nun. Slipping her hand into Montparnasse’s, they pretend to giggle like schoolgirls until they finally step into the yard and find a miniscule gathered about a lone figure.

 

She’s the princess of Éponine’s stories, perhaps the _goddess,_ because her hands seem to mould figures in the oxygen, golden hair rippling around her shoulders and eyes like the soul of winter set aflame; a deadly combination.

  
“This is not a fair treatment. Why should men get so much more than us, even unemployed? The-” The princess’ eyes descend onto Sister Mercy’s and in the crowd Éponine elbows Montparnasse in the side.

 

“She’s aware now,” she whispers, humour glinting in her eyes.

 

“Meeting postponed,” rings the blonde. She casually slips off the bench, walking tall and proud towards Sister Mercy.

 

_Postponed,_ thinks Éponine, _they’re going to have another one._

Éponine’s calloused hand tugs on Montparnasse’s, and they move further away, but never, not ever, out of earshot or eyeshot.

 

The older woman looks at the blonde with all the iciness of a Seraphim. Éponine shoots the woman a glare. Devils do not make friends or gentility with Angels.

 

“Evonne,” the woman says. “Evonne Enjolras.”

 

“I would prefer to be simply Enjolras, your grace.”

 

Sister Mercy sizzles Enjolras with grey eyes. “I suppose you should find a better hobby to spend your time. You should be careful what you say on campus, or anywhere. We do not want revolution, Mademoiselle Evonne.”

 

Something sparks in Enjolras’ eyes. “Yes, Sister.” She watches the nun turn and walk away from Enjolras.

 

 

Only now does she notice the absence of Montparnasse beside her. The girl has gone, fled into the shadows like the night. Éponine hisses at the childish antics, but she too has wooed with flight or fight. She glances back to where the goddess stood- and finds that the girl is closer. In fact, she’s walking towards Éponine with all the pride and grace one would expect of a queen. Then again, Éponine has always longed for the impossible.

 

Enjolras stops in front of Éponine, face pulled into a frown. “Do you make a habit of eavesdropping,” she asks, but it sounds distinctly unlike a question.

 

Éponine could run. She could disappear, but instead her lips curl upwards. “Mademoiselle, it would appear that I do.”

 

“Why?” Her hair is Rumplestiltskin’s wheat, graced upon this child of the sun. The orb clings to her hair with golden fingers, weaving and braiding at sleep-mussed curls.

 

“Why didn’t the Sister punish you?” Éponine is close enough that she can almost taste her own morning breath.

 

Éponine’s Goddess pauses, and her frown lifts into a smile. “Mademoiselle, it is quite an interesting and intricate matter.”

 

Enjolras takes yet more steps towards Éponine until her back is pressed against the wall of the building.

 

“Explain it to me then,” Éponine’s voice dips, sultry.

 

Enjolras leans forward, pale hand coming to rest on the wall beside Éponine’s head. “You see, if she punishes me, then people are going to _hear,_ and then they’re going to hear _why,_ and, listen to this.”

 

Enjolras is so close that the slightest move would be impossible. “And _people,_ Mademoiselle. _People,_ the collective, are _curious._ That’s why you came, was it not. You followed Sister Mercy. Hear about this from word of mouth, and people will _listen._ ”

 

Éponine feels goosebumps rising on her body, and fear; because for a moment she believes this girl. Which is wrong, because this girl knows nothing of the world outside the wall. Éponine needs to get away. Now.

 

“You can get off me now,” she groans.

 

“But listen to me! If people are going to come and listen, they’ll learn far more than they could in the-”

 

Éponine surges forward, trapping Enjolras’ lips against hers. She feels the other girl stiffen, but Éponine isn’t prepared for the way Enjolras melts, hands reaching for Éponine as she pushes against Enjolras’ body.

 

Enjolras sighs, hand scraping down the wall to rest against Éponine’s hip. That’s when our devil takes her chance and whirls them so that Enjolras’ back grinds against the brick as Éponine stands on tip-toe. Without the barriers of Enjolras’ body, she is the one to pull away, and she rushes from the blonde, from the goddess, from the _danger._

 

She can’t help it, though. At the corner of the building, she turns to look behind her, and Enjolras is still there, staring at an imaginary barricade.

 

 


End file.
